


Unbroken Heaven

by Ejella



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Meetings, John has secrets, John is american, John uses Americanisms, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 01, Sherlock is NOT bored, There's a reason for this, tags to be added as the story develops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:44:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2167989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejella/pseuds/Ejella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has his secrets and Sherlock finds himself NOT BORED. </p><p>"He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help: that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don’t like his drinking."</p><p>"That was extraordinary."</p><p>"Did I get anything wrong?"</p><p>"Almost everything, but it was still amazing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbroken Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that has been germinating for a while. It's a bit darker than what I usually write, but hopefully no less enjoyable. Sit back, get a drink and let's go for a ride.

John Watson had no idea what to do next. Coming to England seemed like the best of a bad lot, but now that he was here, he had his doubts. Nothing had magically changed as he’d traveled over the Atlantic. The emptiness and loneliness that had been his companions for the last three months had stubbornly followed him. His shoulder and leg still pained him. Everything was the same except for the location.

“Buck up, Watson. You’re here for a fresh start,” he mumbled to himself. He sighed wearily. How many fresh starts could one person be expected to make before giving it up as a lost cause? He ran his hand lovingly over the desk thinking of the gun nestled within. It would be so easy: pull the drawer open and find peace at last.

 _No_. He snatched his hand back as if burned. He would not dishonor the memory of his loved ones this way. He’d survived this far. One step in front of the other, he reminded himself. It had been his mother’s favorite saying. _One step in front of the other will get you to a new day._

He sank wearily on the bed of his small room, choking back a sob. He had clung so fervently to his mother’s belief of new days. It _had_ gotten him through once upon a time, but every time it seemed he was making strides forward, something would come along to strip it all away.

He was just so damned tired.

His therapist had warned him of this. Old griefs will come back, she’d told him. You’ll have to deal with them. You can’t run from them.

He didn’t see himself as running, more like relocating. England had been the source of some happy memories. He’d flourished here those many years ago, and it seemed like a good place to start over. It wasn’t quite going as planned though. Money was tighter than expected. Last time he’d walked right into instant camaraderie with people who share the same goals. Now he was alone.

You could go back, a voice in his head said. But to what he countered. Everything that was familiar and loved was gone. It was like a finished book. He’d read it, and had enjoyed most of the story, but it was done. Time to close the covers and put it on the shelf where it belonged with all the other books of his life.

A sound on his phone startled him out of his increasingly morose thoughts. He pulled it out, staring at it blankly for a moment. Flicking the screen open, he saw there was an alert reminding him of his meeting with Mike Stamford. Christ, John thought. He didn’t feel up to it, but he’d known if he didn’t reach out to old friends as soon as he’d arrived in England, he might never.  

Fresh start, he reminded himself. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he finally stood and grabbed his cane. Time to go out and act normal.

*********************

“I can’t believe it’s really you!” Mike’s voice was enthusiastic and his smile wide. He threw his arms around John and gave him a big hug. “You look just the same.”

John smiled ruefully. Leave it to Mike to pass over the obvious, like that he was using a cane, had a bad limp and that a map of new lines covered his face. “I doubt that. It’s been years.” He ran a hand over his hair. “I’m sure there was less gray the last time we met.”

“Nah,” Mike shook his head. “You were always an old man. Your hair just finally caught up.”

Startled, John chuckled. “Christ, Mike. I’d forgotten how hard you were on a man’s ego.”

“Oh don’t feel bad.” He patted his stomach. “You look good while I got fat.”

John gripped Mike’s shoulder. “You look happy and healthy. I’m glad.” Before the moment could become laden with sentimentality, he squeezed his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll buy you a coffee so you can tell me all about Anna and kids.”

Since it was one of those beautiful sunny days in London, they sat outside the coffee shop at a small table with their drinks. John had been grateful that Mike hadn’t suggested a walk in the park. As nice as it would have been, the idea of dealing with the cane, his tremor and his coffee had left him worried that he’d humiliate himself in front of his old friend.

Turning to Mike, John asked him about his wife and daughters. Mike needed little prodding to speak enthusiastically about them, even going so far as to pulling out his phone and sharing pictures. After the last family vacation photo was oohed over, they fell into silence, Mike fiddling with his cup for a few minutes before finally speaking. “I was surprised when I’d heard you’d gone off to war to be shot at. What happened, John?”

John shrugged. “I got shot,” he deadpanned.

Mike gave him a dark look. “Yeah, I got that memo from the guys. I mean why the military? You seemed so gung ho to go into research.”

John wondered how he could ever explain to his old friend of what brought him to him to the battlefields of Afghanistan. Mike, so normal, would never understand the demons that drove him. He’d had such plans back then, so grand and idealistic. But then he’d gotten a shock of news and he’d run as far and as fast as he could. He’d thought the military would offer a reprieve and a buffer. And he was right. It had, up until the moment he’d been shot.

But he couldn’t say any of that, so he fell back on the excuse he’d given others. “That had been the idea, but I realized it didn’t suit me. And I wanted to serve my country. To give back to others, you know?”

Mike patted his arm. “You were always a good one, John Watson. They were lucky to have you.” The simple sentiment overwhelmed John for a moment. Mike must have noticed. He stood. “Come with me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

John groaned. “No, Mike. I’ve just arrived. I’m not really up for that.”

Mike looked at him askance and then let out a belly laugh. “No, nothing like that I swear!” He said wiping tears of laughter away. John was a bit thrown. “No, there’s this man who works at Bart’s sometimes. Well, not work, exactly. He just takes what he needs when he wants it. He is truly one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. I couldn’t let you come all the way to England and not meet him.” Mike slapped a hand on his shoulder, thankfully not the bad one, John thought.

His laughter faded. “Look John, I heard a bit of what happened, and frankly, if I were you, I’d be a blubbering mess somewhere. But I’m not you and you are a hell of a lot stronger than I’ll ever be. So if there is a bit of enjoyment I could give your day, I’d like to.” John saw the sincerity in his face and relaxed. Mike grinned at him “Come with me and be prepared to be amazed.”

************

They walked the short distance to St. Bart’s. John flushed when he realized that Mike had altered his pace to fit John’s. Damn his leg, he thought bitterly, but that was swept aside as they come upon the building where he’d had some happy memories.

John’s eyes roved over the exterior. “I feel like I’m stepping back in time. Nothing’s changed!”

“Nah,” Mike laughed. “You’ll get the shock when you go inside. You won’t recognize the place. Bart’s fought hard for money to bring it up to date. Now it’s one of the most state of the art hospitals in the country.”

As they entered, John whistled appreciatively at all the changes. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Wait til you see the labs,” Mike said. “The students of course don’t appreciate a bit of it. I like to remind them how good they’ve got it.”

John grinned. “Is that the equivalent of walking uphill in snow both ways to school?”

Mike snorted. “Ah, here we are.” He opened the door, and stepped inside. John followed.

Scanning the room, John had to agree. “Bit different from my day.”

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” John’s gaze snapped to the man who’d spoken. Fluency deserted him; all that stuttered though his brain were a random jumble of words. Beautiful. Mesmerizing. That voice. Those eyes.  

His reaction was instantaneous. Tingling started in his fingertips and spread to his arms and chest. Heart rate speeding up, he could feel the adrenalin being released into his bloodstream. His eyes dilated, allowing him to see everything in sharp focus.

Am I having a panic attack, he wondered almost distantly. It was as if his body and mind had separated. It didn’t feel like a normal panic attack. By this point, he’d be looking for the nearest exit, but he had no inclination to run. In fact, all he wanted to do was to draw closer to the man who captivated him.

This isn’t panic. It’s desire, he realized. My God, he thought, amazed. It had been so long since he’d felt anything like this. No, scratch that, he’d never felt this way, ever. It was all so wonderful and new, and, well, a bit disconcerting. Did people normally feel this way? He wanted to laugh and shout out that, he, John Watson, was not broken after all.

Feeling like the earth should have stopped turning for this momentous occasion, John realized, that it had, in fact, not. Mike and the man were discussing something about landlines. It took him a minute for the words to coalesce in his brain. Oh! He needed a phone. He could do that.

“Here, use mine.” John held it out and watched appreciatively as the man walked towards him, lithe and graceful.

He was so lost in cataloguing these new sensations that he belatedly realized the he’d been asked a question. “Sorry. What?”

“I asked which was it. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John looked at him, confused. A feeling of unease nudged his desire towards anxiousness. John knew they’d never met; he’d had never forgotten if they had, so how did this man know his history? He mentally reviewed what he was wearing. No, nothing that would signify he was former military. An insidious thought wormed its way into him. Was this some sort of set up? He glanced over at Mike, but his old friend didn’t look nervous or guilty. Rather, he was smiling slightly.

Clearing his throat, he tried to fight the instinct to run. “Afghanistan. How did you know?”

The man spun away, ignoring his question. “How do you feel about the violin?”

John felt so turned around that he blurted out. “I quite like it actually.”

The man paused, looking slightly startled. “Oh, good. Then you won’t mind me playing when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

Wait. What? “Flatmates?” John asked, more confused than before. “I’m not looking for a flatmate. I already have a place to live.”

The man sniffed at him, actually sniffed. “You can’t possibly want to stay in that miserable bedsit any longer than necessary.”

John went cold. How the hell did this man know where he lived? Anxiety turned to panic and self-preservation in an instant. _Stay calm, Watson. You’re not helpless._ He scanned the room for potential weapons. Immediately at hand were glass beakers filled with unknown liquids. Didn’t matter if they were dangerous or not. Flinching was a natural reaction when being doused. That could give him a few extra seconds. He also had his cane, a nice sturdy metal which would bludgeon nicely. Bouncing slightly, he repositioned his weight, readying himself in case the man opposite him lunged. Although he could still see Mike in his periphery, he knew instinctively this man was his main threat. He focused solely on him. The man stared back, looking…intrigued?

The taller man didn’t look at all like he was going to attack. In fact, if he read it right, it looked he was about to start rubbing his hands together in glee. What the hell?

Was he reading this wrong? Had the desire he’d felt so badly confused his body? Was this man an enemy or not? He needed to find out. He opened his mouth to speak when the door opened, a woman entering, bearing a cup of coffee.

The strange man didn’t look away from John, instead he held out his hands palms up in a universal language of look, _no weapons,_ and said, “Ah, Molly, coffee. Good.” The woman started to move forward, but John blocked her with his cane.

“No. How did you know about Afghanistan and my apartment?”

The man shrugged. “I didn’t know. I saw.”

“Yeah?” John asked, his throat feeling tight. “What did you see?”

The man looked closely at him, his eyes roving over his body. John resisted the urge to squirm. “The accent obviously says American. Posture and haircut say military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.

John breathed out. “And my apartment?”

The man sighed as if he were surrounded by idiots. “When you gave me your phone earlier, there was a map with directions from your bedsit to where you were meeting Mike. I know the area, and I can tell you unequivocally that it’s not a place where anyone would wish to live.” The man stepped closer. John’s breath caught, but he held his position.

“You came here on a whim. Something drove you way from your home. Since you studied for a time at Barts, perhaps an international rotation, you were familiar with England. But once you got here, you realized how much more expensive it is than it used to be so you found the cheapest lodgings available. You find them bleak and depressing, as you should.” He tugged on his cuffs and straightened his jacket. “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

John’s axis tilted again. He rocked back on his heels, feeling as if the earth were shifting beneath him. Was this man real? Oh God, he wanted him to be. _Not everyone is a threat, Watson. Some people are just…miraculous._

He felt an enormous sense of relief. Not a threat, not a threat, he repeated to himself gratefully. He didn’t know how he knew it conclusively, but he did. His panic was abating, his body returning to a more normal state. So focused on his relief, he didn’t notice the man grabbing his coat and scarf.

“Must dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

John watched him move towards the doors, and suddenly he sprang back to life. The idea of him walking away forever was untenable. “I don’t even know your name.” He cringed at the lameness.

The man paused and looked back at John with a slight smirk on his face. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes. The address is 221 B Baker Street. We’ll meet there tomorrow at 7,”

With a wink, he left the room in a dramatic swirl of coat. “I’m not looking for a flatmante!” John yelled after the departing figure.

The exotic voice drifted back to him. “We’ll see about that.”

John, feeling like he’d been just gotten of a roller coaster looked at Mike, who nodded happily. “Yep, he’s always like that.”  
 

***********

Sherlock. John mouthed the words. Sherlock. He liked how the name felt in his mouth, the consonants rolling over his tongue smoothly. Sherlock Holmes. He giggled, feeling like the teenager he’d never been. Soon he’d start writing his name in a notebook. John Holmes. Mr. John Watson Holmes. The giggles turned to laugher as he staggered towards his desk and computer.

Mike and John’s outing had not lasted long after Sherlock had left. Parting ways with the promise of getting together again soon, John had wandered back to his studio apartment in a warm haze. The sun was bright, he noticed people enjoying themselves, and he wanted to laugh and smile right along with them. It was a nice feeling.

Entering his apartment, he looked around, and yes, it was as depressing as fuck. What had Sherlock called it? A bedsit? The name fit. It wasn’t a home, it was just a place to sleep. You didn’t build memories or lives in a place like this. Sherlock had also been right that John had been stunned by the prices and had taken the only place he could afford that had kept him within the city of London.

He sagged back into his desk chair, both exhausted and exhilarated. The desire had been real. Thinking about Sherlock, with his long, lean body and impossible face caused a stirring in his groin. He grinned, imagining Dr. Frankenstein shouting, ‘It’s alive!’

Desire and lust were not things he’d ever expected to fully experience. Of course he’d had a few short-lived relationships, but he’d always kept himself apart. Every one of his partners had broken up with him because they’d said he was emotionally unavailable. And they were right. He’d _wanted_ to feel the things they expected from him, but he couldn’t. There was just too much potential for pain. His therapist said he had trust issues. She was right; relationships required an openness and a vulnerability he was not willing to bestow on anyone. Until now, at least. For the first time, he wanted to try.

He chewed on his lower lip. But could he trust these new feelings? Hell, Sherlock had given no sign that he was interested in that way. An offer to be a flatmate was not the same as come fuck me. He should know, having run into that same situation in the past. It had been awkward and had resulted in a restraining order. He’d really hate to be the one on the wrong end of the relationship. How humiliating.

On the other hand, Sherlock hadn’t said he _wasn’t_ interested either. At one point, he’d looked intrigued. Maybe the man had a military kink. He could work with that. The most promising sign, of course, was that John had been in the middle of panic attack, and it hadn’t thrown Sherlock off. It had to be a good sign, right? He’d still asked John to come meet him.

John wanted to bang his head on the desk. He was getting too far ahead. His head was spinning and he was pulling conclusions from a five minute conversation.

Besides, he knew nothing of the man. Mike’s endorsement was the only thing he knew about him. And Mike hadn’t said he was a _good_ man, just that he was an interesting one. The two were definitely not synonymous in his experience.

He needed to find out more. Opening his computer, he went to a search page and typed in Sherlock Holmes surprised by the numerous results. He clicked on the first link which happened to be the man’s own website. _The Science of Deduction._ John snorted at the pretentious name.

He scrolled through, absorbing the details. The world’s only consulting detective, huh? He observes and deduces everything. Highhanded for sure, but it did sound an awful lot like what he had done today. Maybe his initial instinct _not_ to run from the man had been the right one.

He clicked on a link named Analysis of Tobacco Ash. He tried to read it, but it had to be the dullest thing ever. Perhaps Sherlock’s interest in John made more sense now. Sherlock couldn’t find a willing roommate so he’s had to blindside one to get him to live with him. John figured as long as they don’t have to discuss the 240, no 243 types of ash, he should be able to hold his own.

He moved from the chair and sprawled on his small, uncomfortable bed. He had a decision to make. He can meet Sherlock Holmes tomorrow at 7…or, not. If he does, things could turn out great or they could go south very quickly. But if he continues as he is, in this bedsit, he knows what to expect from the days ahead of him. It may be comforting to know what’s in store, but there’s a bleakness about all of it that scares him. His eyes dart to his desk and he forces them away.

Remember why you’re here, John. You wanted a fresh start. Yes, he respondde to his inner voice, but _this_ much of one?

A pathetic groan rumbled out of him. Oh hell, let’s face it. Once they met again, Sherlock may realize that he didn’t want a wounded ex-soldier with panic attacks living with him anyway. All of this school girlish drama could be for naught.

So, he should just stay here and not meet Sherlock. Avoid the disappointment he’d inevitably see in the younger man’s face once he got to know him and realized he tied himself to a man approaching 40 who was damaged mentally and physically.

But damn…his mother and her promise of new days. Could this be one? If it were, how could he possibly let it pass by without even the smallest attempt at reaching out for it? He knew with certainty he would regret it for the rest of his probably short life.

He nodded decisively. He would not be giving up so easily. He wanted to see what happened next.

Decision made, he felt lighter than he had in years. Tomorrow, he’d be meeting Sherlock Holmes. And then he’d see where his next steps took him.


End file.
